


The Velvet Curtain

by TheLexFiles



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: AU, BDSM, Crack, F/F, Other, Sexuality Crisis, Smut, anyways i had a thought and here it is, this is hella au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-17 05:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/pseuds/TheLexFiles
Summary: This woman, tall, dark, and alluring is a stranger. Franky Doyle has been presently on her mind, in her dreams, but she’s off-limits, inappropriate, and illegal. She finishes her drink with the thought, pushing it away. Franky may be a temptation, but she is one with severe consequences. Here, in secret, Erica can allow herself the pleasure. She orders a third drink, but removes herself from the bar. Despite the voice in the back of her mind that has told her to leave or to back out while she can, Wentworth’s Governor strides forward with a nervous confidence towards the least threatening – least indecent – person in the room.





	1. Observation & Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So I was rewatching season one, and I remembered how much I got into the Erica's Sexual Frustration arc, and I thought 'wait what if Joan was a common patron at this Velvet Curtain place' and then I thought... what if Joan and Erica hooked up because of the common interest, and here we are. This is very much an AU, and an exploratory three piece fic. You can thank @oceansinmychest for being my enabler to actually go through with writing this out :).

_The Velvet Curtain_ , a place of depravity secluded in a back-alley club, holds a certain repertoire amongst those that participate, and more so, amongst those that simply come to enjoy the show. The draw to such a place is hard to ignore. Erica Davidson finds herself back, but not for another lawyer’s meeting with Tom.

“ _I could show you around_. ”

“No thanks,” she had rescinded his offer, once.

Her words are now eaten, swallowed whole. She is under the guise of a curious patron, unable to tear her eyes away. There’s so much to process, she isn’t sure where to start. Every image of pairs, of groups burn into her retinas, committed to memory when she returns to a sleeping fiancé, and gets herself off without his notice.  

He’s too _nice_. Their sex is too _nice_ , too vanilla. It’s hard to ask for more when he simply doesn’t understand it. The dreams make it harder, and while she’s never talked in her sleep, she fears she might start with the names of the women in her fantasies.

_Fuck_ , Erica thinks, bites down on her lip. Tom spots her from their previous meeting spot, but doesn’t approach. Exploration is a part of the culture. Expressing interest comes from self-discovery, and he’ll let her venture. This lawyer seems to be a little more than just _unclenched,_ likely in need of release. He smirks into his glass as Erica wanders about each scene like a lost lamb looking for her shepherd.

* * *

Joan Ferguson watches like an apex predator, observing flagrant displays of dominance and submission that play out well past expectations of the average individual. This place is filthy, but inherent desires so often win out, and Joan has become a long-term patron of the high art of BDSM, admiring the works of those willing to play their scenes publicly. She is the definitive voyeur, deriving pleasure merely from the act of _watching._

Dark granite eyes have seen many of the scenes time and again, though her visits are inconspicuous – only on evenings on vacation, only once a month at contrasting times. Her work at the prison upstate has been immaculate. Time off is well earned for their Governor, living up to her reputation as _The Fixer_. Stress relief comes not in the form of imbibing to excess or sitting idle at home, but obliging needs that few people – if anyone – could truly satiate.

She watches intently, gazing from the women captured within the cage, adorned in leather, feathers, and chains, lip locked and fixated solely one another, to a group of both men and women in the middle of the dance floor, surrounding a woman bound in the style of _kinbaku_. It is between these scenes that a stranger captures Joan’s attention; a blonde, dressed for a club but not of this variety, looks lost amid the chaos. She observes, makes details of what gains her attention longest – it appears to be mainly women, particularly two that have also laid eyes upon new flesh and blood, eager to include her. This woman hesitates; she too is here to watch, and to learn.

* * *

Erica feels intoxicated without even having a single drink prior to entering the club. The smells of leather, sweat, and sex infiltrate her nostrils. She wants to get drunk on it, but taking the first step is daunting. Once she begins, she fears she won’t be able to stop, and failing to come home at all will be cause for concern – coming home with sordid remnants of the night will not go unnoticed, either.

The club is larger than she once believed from her initial visit. Many private rooms line the outside walls, tucked away behind velvet curtains, hiding God knows what within them. Erica walks a few more paces. Her eyes fall to a woman subject to the constant smack of a multi-tailed whip, but no pain shows on her face. Rather, she moans, begs for _more, more, more!_ Erica bites her lip, turns her eyes away.

She wonders if a drink or three would make this easier, and decidedly walks towards the bar. Whiskey neat is procured, and she sips on it, lets the bitter substance linger on her tongue for the aftertaste. The music makes the walls vibrate, but moans and sounds of leather against skin punctuate the bass. She drinks faster, orders another. A world of new experiences lay before her, but the temptation hasn’t drawn her out of monogamous loyalty just yet.

Erica knows she wants more from a man who won’t give it to her, misconceiving the notion of these tenants with disrespect. It’s sex, it gets _dirty_ , but Mark doesn’t get it.

And _God_ help her, she needs the distraction from work.

Much like the wide-eyed rabbit in unfamiliar territory, Erica looks around for – she isn’t sure what, exactly, she’s looking for beyond some semblance of familiarity, only to find nothing of the sort. The stony gaze of another woman sitting alone catches hers from across the room. She’s also imbibing on a beverage, but her expression exudes a comfortable confidence to be in such a setting. It’s odd though; everyone else is a participant to some degree, or if they’re observing, they do so by invitation into each scene. She swallows, wets her lips, turns away for a moment to compose herself.

This woman, tall, dark, and alluring is a stranger. Franky Doyle has been presently on her mind, in her dreams, but she’s off-limits, inappropriate, and _illegal_. She finishes her drink with the thought, pushing it away. Franky may be a temptation, but she is one with severe consequences. Here, in secret, Erica can allow herself the pleasure. She orders a third drink, but removes herself from the bar. Despite the voice in the back of her mind that has told her to leave or to back out while she can, Wentworth’s Governor strides forward with a nervous confidence towards the least threatening – least _indecent_ – person in the room. Her heart pounds along with the music, her steps fall in line with the beat. She needs to start somewhere, hoping that this woman has the answers and guidance she needs.

Joan’s stare is not deterred, even when caught. Rather, the fixation changes from mere curiosity to seeking fulfilment; this woman is not yet another participant in the scenes displayed so fervently throughout the club, but rather, another, lesser experienced observer. Joan’s curiosity allows for the intrusion.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

How… _interesting._

“No. Go on.” The booth is large enough for an array of people to fit around the table. They remain seated several feet apart. The blonde sips her drink; Joan’s vodka remains half empty.  The music makes it hard to speak unless salacious words are whispered into one another’s ears. It makes it easy to avoid small talk.

Joan thinks for a moment, studies this woman’s face again, taking in minor details previously unseen from a distance. Her brows knit just slightly; she recognises this woman from a recent press interview as the _Governor_ of Wentworth Correctional Centre.

With this realisation, she smirks and decides to play with fire.  


	2. Temptation & Seduction

“This isn’t your first time here,” Erica may as well be stating the obvious. That, or this statuesque woman wears a mask of cold and collective in the face of the most sordid and scandalous scenes. Her first night had been a trying time to maintain her composure, but in the end, curiosity got the better of the Governor, lingering far too long to leave The Velvet Curtain behind entirely.

“No,” Joan states plainly. Conversing is kept to a minimum here; she prefers to watch in silence, taking in the surroundings and the players within the games played here rather than avidly taking part. She doesn’t dignify the answer with anything else, though she ponders the indulgence.

Information is power, after all.  

“I assume this is new for you.”

“That obvious, huh?” Erica laughs, takes a sip of the whiskey. The previous rounds have started to take the edge off her nerves, letting her tongue loose, and her inhibitions free. “Couldn’t kill my curiosity, in all truth.”

Joan can almost empathize. Her demand for power and control has been an acquired taste, but one she cannot rid herself of, time and again. It remains like a heady, bitter aftertaste, thick in her throat, but it is most pleasing to drink more and more. She watches a woman become subject to orally receiving a silicone strap-on to the hilt; the bottom of Joan’s lip is caught between her teeth.

“Once you’ve had a taste, it can be very… difficult to stop.” Such a thing can be spoken of addictions, to alcohol and drugs, and extended to sexual infamy.

Erica notices when the woman reaches for her drink that her hands are clad in leather gloves despite her rather civilian clothes (a sheer black shirt and slacks to match). Her gaze is met, and her brow raises with the silent inquiry that she can’t bring herself to ask aloud.

Joan smirks, takes a sip, eyes this woman over the glass.

“I appreciate the… finer art of the scenes here,” She explains. It’s only a very _basic_ explanation for complex desires that not even she can understand in their entirety, but it suits her purpose, suits the allure she presents in revealing nothing about herself beyond the reason for her presence. “Seldom do I… participate.”

“I’d be tempted, but…” Erica isn’t entirely sure what it is about this woman that makes her want to talk about it so indiscreetly, but the music nearly drowns them out amid the sea of moans and various sounds of pain and pleasure. “I’m not sure if I really want to get involved here. It’s…” Her eyes drift down to the forgotten engagement ring. Joan follows, and perhaps, begins to understand the younger woman’s motivation.

“You want something more than what you’re getting.”

“Y-yeah, yeah,” It’s odd how predictable she’s become, but there’s no lying about it. There’s no other purpose for being here than to satiate some sort of extra marital need. “I don’t want a permanent change but I need… something.”

“Mm,” Joan hums, purses her lips, and returns to the near by scene where the submissive woman is now on her hands and knees, receiving her partner’s strap-on from behind, a fist curling into her long brown hair. Joan’s hand makes a fist in her lap, imagines herself in that position. They fall silent, enamored by the debauchery.

Joan finishes her drink. Vodka burns down her throat, leaves the aftertaste where she wants more, but control wins out. Forgoing her own inhibitions would be a vulnerability; she cannot allow it. Erica stays in place, fixated. Her curiosity has brought her here, but her hesitation keeps her seated next to the woman in black.

* * *

The room feels like a foggy haze has settled. The smell of sweat and sex lingers, wafts into their booth. The bass line of the current track pounds in Erica’s chest, vibrating against her rib cage. She’s onto her next drink; bravery is not without liquid courage, and it’s all that keeps her anchored, keeps her from leaving and never looking back.

She wants this, but she doesn’t know _how_.

_Pull my hair or something!_

It had been a desperate cry for something, for _anything_ beyond the kind of nice, **vanilla** sex she had been subjected to for the duration of her long-term relationship. The reaction had ruined the mood, and subsequently, was the reason for coming back here.

Yet, she’s still sat down in this booth without a word, buying expensive alcohol, and spending her company with a woman of few words.

Blue-green eyes look over at her unnamed and temporary companion. She moves closer, uses the volume of the music as an excuse.

“I’m Erica, by the way.”

“Joan,” She says after a deliberate moment. Erica is still here, still fixated. Perhaps she too is the ultimate voyeur, but something hungers in her eyes, something that _needs_ to be satiated.

The Devil’s lip curls back. Her leather hand reaches out. “May I?” She inquires; after a moment’s hesitation, Erica nods. Several strands of hair are tucked behind Erica’s ear, her jawline and profile admired in Joan’s view. Erica side eyes the gesture, but does not pull away, nor does she object. This is her moment to indulge what she craves most. Joan’s hand slips in behind Erica’s head, fingers curling around blonde hair and pulling – the sound that escapes the Governor is unbecoming of her, but she can’t _help it_.

Her moan is disguised by the melody of the hard-hitting club music, but she isn’t fooling anyone who dares to be their witness.

The master of control gives another pull. Erica’s hands grip the edge of the table. Her nails dig into the ceramic surface to no avail. She doesn’t understand how one swift movement has sent her senses reeling, but she’s in no place to question it. It needn’t matter that this is another woman; instead, it’s as if Joan has read her like a piece of classic literature, and ever the scholar, she knows just how to analyze the text.  

Her gloved hand relents its hold, tracing fingers against Erica’s jawline, towards her plump lower lip. Her thumb teases over it, pushes in – waits to be taken in before pushing to the knuckle – and withdraws. Erica’s heart races within the confines of her chest; she’s aroused by the promise to come if she allows herself to break free from her anxieties and commitment.

 _Hate the sin, love the sinner_.

Erica finishes her drink, washes down the taste of immaculate black leather down her throat.

Joan retracts her hand. Smug satisfaction rests in the firm line of her mouth. Her granite stare is unwavering, gauging her next move based upon the younger woman’s next reaction. Her heart races along with the beat of the music, hard and heavy. Such simple ministrations are only minor demonstrations of what she is capable of behind closed doors.

Erica catches her breath, feels the flush spread from her cheeks, down her neck and chest. She’d do anything for a breath of cold, fresh air but finds her feet too heavy to move. She looks at Joan, half-expecting to be taken right here with the way her predatory gaze seeks her rabbit heart.

“Do you want more?” Joan is calm and collected, presenting as entirely in control of the situation. The question is merely a yes or no answer, but its direction insinuates something far more than just that. Erica gathers herself, clears her throat. The feeling of leather lingers on her scalp.

“H-here?” _Now?_ Of course, the setting in of itself promotes overt displays of diverse sexuality but even her nerves call upon common sense.

“Not here. Come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one, but I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I also have to keep reminding myself that Erica is Governor, not Joan, hah.


	3. Authority & Aftercare

The hand in the small of Erica’s back guides her through a modern and minimalist flat, hidden behind façade of the old brick building. The lights are turned on, shoes removed and placed side by side to the mat. With the alcoholic haze clouding her mind, Erica follows suit. This in of itself is a dangerous notion; she knows little to nothing about this woman, but the promise of _something more_ lies within these walls, and she cannot turn back now.

This, this is commitment.

“Follow me.”

Joan’s instructions are given and Erica follows without hesitation. The place is spotless, adorned with modernistic furniture and glass décor. The lights remain dimmed, but she can see enough to know that this woman, whoever she is, has money. She doesn’t doubt that Joan can afford the luxury of membership to a seedy sex club in a questionable section of the city. It’s one of its kind, otherwise, Erica believes she wouldn’t dare set foot there without good reason.

She watches Joan walk. The way she carries herself suggests some sort of trained manner. Military, perhaps. Long strides carry her up the stairs two at a time and the Governor struggles to keep up in her inebriated state and shorter stature. A door clicks open, the light pressed on. Joan stands aside, allows Erica to walk in.

From a first glance, the room is unassuming. Just as neat as it was downstairs, the walls are a shade of deep red. The dresser, bed, and bedside tables are in matching schemes of silver metal fixtures and black composite material. The bed is made pristinely without a wrinkle in sight. The door closes behind them, despite being alone together – so Erica _assumes_.

Joan’s approach is not entirely quiet, but it still takes Erica for a surprise when she feels the much larger woman stand behind her. The quiet inhale can be heard against the shell of her ear. A shiver strikes down the center of her spine.

“How familiar are you with the… core tenants of this kind of relationship, hm?” Her voice feels like velvet, a tenor that licks at her ear, and already makes her want to hear more of it now that music doesn’t drown it out entirely.

“Admittedly, I’m not too… involved with this sort of thing.”

“I see.”

The trail of warm breath pulls away too soon. Strong strides cross the room, stopping at the left bedside table. An elastic is procured, dark hair tied back into a low ponytail. The second item that is removed from the drawer is a pair of leather gloves, gleaming beneath the light. Each glove is put on one at a time, fingers pulled on in an immaculate, precise fashion. The creak of the material draws Erica closer, curious footsteps padding across the laminate floor.

“To begin,” Joan starts, turning to face Erica, calm and collected with giving commands. Her experience speaks volumes in the way she carries herself. It’s a relief to have found someone _like this._ “Safe. Sane. Consensual. I will not go beyond your limit should you object to any act. I will only perform within your boundaries. I require a safe word from you.”

 “Right,” She nods; it’s easily understood. She isn’t entirely _unaware_ , but the reality is far different than reading first hand articles online, or admittedly, in pornographic material. “I… I don’t quite know… _exactly_ what I’m after here. Just… something. But um, just… _Franky_.”  

The choice holds no bearing to Joan. Perhaps the name of an inadequate former – or _current_ – lover.  

“Hm.” Joan hums, head tilting as if examining Erica under the light whilst in her thoughts. Hair pulling earlier had been only a touch inside of what makes this Governor _tick_. There are many avenues and paths she can opt to take, and take them _slowly_ , give this woman a proper taste. “Strip.”

The command settles against Erica’s shoulders. Blue eyes meet near black. This is where it begins. First, her hands pull the hem of her shirt over her head. Instead of tossing it aside, Joan takes it, folds it, and sets it aside. Each article is done in the same way, yet the mastermind behind the forthcoming scene remains entirely clothed. The air sends a chill across Erica’s skin, retaining her undergarments – she hesitates here with the sobering air under fresh, strange and intriguing eyes.

“Take them off.”

Erica hesitates, but the stern stare dares her to defy the order. The clasps of her bra are undone, her underwear slid down her thighs and stepped out of and handed off to accompany the rest of her clothing.

Joan assesses the younger woman; her curves are soft and pliable, unmarked and pretty.

“Turn around.”

Erica obliges, a half pace and spin on her heels and Joan returns to assume the position behind her. The leather meets her skin; a cold sensation clamps down over her breasts and stomach, down her sides and between her thighs. The grip is firm; its intention only speaks to their near future, of their capabilities.

It isn’t lost on Erica that this is reminiscent of a strip search in the prison, but she refrains from commenting. Distraction follows through with fingers tracing against the apex of her thighs, parting her lower lips only briefly – her breath hitches, but they are gone as fast as they arrived.

Erica can’t argue that this was a part in a few of her fantasies. Work serves as her inspiration for dreams that would never happen – until now.

“Sit on the bed. Allow me a moment.”

The direction is followed without question; Erica watches Joan stride across the bedroom to the walk-in closet, _unlocking_ the door. She stares on as the older woman disappears within its confines, and from her position on the bed, she can only catch minor glimpses of what lives on the shelves.

She can tell, at least, that there isn’t any clothing.

The anticipation builds up in Erica’s chest, watching with wide eyed fascination when dark haired Joan returns with a couple items in her hands – a pair of leather cuffs, and a riding crop, tucked beneath her arm in a professional, experienced manner.

“Since you’re unfamiliar, we’ll _start_ light, hm?”

“Yeah,” Erica finds herself nodding, guided along with those leather clad hands. She’s laid upon the bed, arms outstretched, and cuffed _gently_ to the headboard. The buckles are tightened proficiently, enough to be felt but not enough to dig into her wrists. Joan lingers above Erica, pushing her hair aside, out of the way while her thumb brushes against her lower lip again, reminiscent of the club. This time, however, Joan pushes it in without asking.

Erica has no drink to wash down the taste of leather, but it does more for her, stripped bare and tied down. Joan knows it, switches thumb for two fingers, gently pushing in, out, in and _out_ again. It’s another test of willingness and boundaries. When she feels content with Erica’s _eager_ response, she pulls out, moves away.

“What… what now?” Erica asks, wetting her lips, clearing her throat.

“Turn over.” The command is issued without hesitation. The cuffs are chained loose enough to allow for movement. Erica sucks in another breath before moving her body to lay on her stomach, leaving her backside entirely exposed. A shiver resonates the length of her spine, knowing that Joan remains behind her, at the ready with her next move. She shudders with anticipation of the _smack_. When it comes, it resonates in the room.

_Fuck_.

The sting flourishes across her skin, leather meeting flesh. At first, it bites, a light smattering of pain, but then the sensation settles in. She likes it, likes how it makes her feel – rough, but not out of bounds.

Like hair pulling, its simplicity arouses her. A little bit of pain brings her pleasure.

Once more, Joan smacks Erica’s ass, alternating to the other cheek. Her form is graceful, almost; Erica can’t see it directly, but the timing, and the cup of her hand is experienced. She _knows_ how to do it properly.  

“Again?” Her leather clad hand hovers, already admiring the way the other woman’s skin has turned a shade of pink.

“Please,” the plead comes out far more _desperate_ than Erica intends, but the haze of intoxication makes her more honest, her tongue more pliant than her sober self. _Please_ , she thinks between each slap, and then, it materializes as a moan, buried into the neatly placed pillow her face rests against.

* * *

This time, no command is given to return to lying on her back. Joan turns Erica as if she weighs little. She’s done a number to her backside, stinging against pressed sheets. Her breath is already heavy; she is at this woman’s mercy, and there isn’t a single objection on her tongue nor in her mind.

“Let’s try this, shall we?” Sharply shaped brows lift a moment as she procures the riding crop. Joan runs the length of it across her palm, testing the flap against her hand before turning her attention back to Erica. “You’re enjoying this.”

It’s a statement of affirmation rather than a question.

Erica nods, sucks in a breath of anticipation as the crop is teased against the inside of her thigh, drawn along towards her hips and back down again. The anticipation feels like a little death.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Erica throws her head back to the bed when the first smack of leather to skin comes against the thick of her thigh. Her toes curl with each hit. Her skin reddens with a hue that satisfies the artist, again and again, as she continues to paint brush strokes on each thigh, front and back.

The Devil smiles as she cocks her hand for one last strike.

* * *

“Do you have a preference?”

Erica’s gaze settles over Joan, dark and mysterious and powerful above her. She’s so damn wet and the closest the other woman has come to touching her has been through leather and pain. More has come about from the locked closet – a toy of medium length and girth, black, and attached to a leather harness lays on the edge of the bed. The option is, of course, enticing. If Joan handles herself with such composure and control, she can only imagine the skills she possesses in wielding something external.

“I… I just want you to _fuck me_ ,” She pauses before quickly adding, “ _Please_. _”_

Joan grins.

Leather gloves are soon replaced by black latex, each pulled on with precise grace. The leather ones are returned to their place. Each delay pushes back the inevitable, but to see Erica squirm and writhe against her bonds is worthwhile. She is nothing if not patient.

_Please_.

Erica isn’t one to beg, but she is in no position to negotiate demands. Her skin stings where leather bit into it, her face feels warm, and her thighs damp with arousal and sweat. She gasps loudly without meaning too when Joan returns between her legs, letting her palms travel upwards. She parts them further, demands the space and takes it.

A surge of desire strikes in the lowers of Erica’s gut as Joan parts her cunt, teases the length of her slit. A content hum breaks the anticipatory silence. Her arousal is satisfactory, enough to slip a sole finger in. The gasp that echoes against bedroom walls acts as encouragement. A second is added, slow and sure. It earns a whine from the Governor, head thrown back to the pillows.

It takes little to finally give in to Erica’s plea.

Joan fucks her hard, giving little to no reprieve. Erica had asked, and so, she gives deliverance in the curl of her fingers, deep to the knuckle and back. Again. Again. Again.

Heavy breathing, moans, and the sound of slapping skin and wet arousal reverberate against the walls.

“Oh fuck! Fuck!”

Her holy cry denotes a long, overdue release, earned through pain, pleasure, and submission.

_“Fuck!_ _”_

* * *

Joan doesn’t stop.

She pushes through Erica’s heightened sensitivity, despite her whining protests. The cycle begins again – and again – and again. Each more intense than the last.

A leather-clad hand lightly squeezes against her throat; pale eyes peer up with reverence to the woman that makes her feel _full,_ feeling her from the inside, hard and deep.

The harness creaks with each thrust to the hilt. Erica comes apart at the seams.

Her nails dig into her own palms, restraints digging into her wrists. One last thrust does her in, and she collapses into the bed.

“No… no more. God, I’m done.”

Her shuddering plea is heeded; Joan pulls out with a slick descent, pleased with this result. Marks paint the Governor’s body, of various brush strokes and shades of red. She lays covered in a sheen of sweat, damp hair stuck to her forehead.

“Good girl,” Joan says, smug and arrogant in the same breath as the restraints are undone, one by one.

* * *

The leather feels cool against Erica’s skin, soothing the way that Joan caresses her body as if coddling her work of art, her masterpiece. Her chest still heaves with exhausted breath, lips parted with each exhale.

This awakening has come at little cost besides the sting and soreness that envelopes her body. She’ll make excuses to her fiancé, that she’s too tired or not in the mood. Perhaps their fight will last long enough to hide the evidence of this endeavour.

“What about… what about you?” She inquires. The stoic woman hums a moment, caresses Erica’s cheek with a gentleness unexpected after all this.

“This is enough for me,” The quick dismissal answers the question. Her own arousal is quelled by self discipline. No mention of Erica’s inexperience comes to light, and the topic is settled by silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay - I started grad school and inspiration has been minimal most days. However, i decided to add an epilogue after this so stay tuned.
> 
> Also shoutouts to Kryssi for calling out my lazy aquarian ass to get this done tonight, and to Ocelot for being my #1 instigator / #outofcontextquotes pal.


	4. Epilogue - Post Partum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for encouraging this crack fic endeavour, and for all your comments and #thirst. Special shoutouts to @oceansinmychest for being my #1 instigator. I hope you enjoy this little added epilogue.

A pleasant sigh accompanies Wentworth’s new Governor as she takes place at the leather throne, sitting back in the _big chair_ that so many have coveted, yet never obtained. The smell of fresh paint still lingers in the air as the leather creaks beneath Joan’s weight as she leans back, admires the spartan simplicity and practicality of the office.

Her lips quirk at the thought that comes with staring at the generous space on her desk, enough to lay a woman over its surface without issue. Of course, nothing would tarnish this, nor her reputation. The stack of letters addressed from one Franky Doyle to _Erica Davidson_ linger in a drawer. She has read them, _all of them_.

To think, months ago, the night at The Velvet Curtain had only been a result of pent up frustration, acting out forbidden fantasy. Joan makes a mental note when she intends to speak with Doyle later in the day. Knowledge of the most intimate has proven worthwhile.

* * *

A visit with Doyle offers the start of an alliance between Governor and residing Top Dog, with only minor compromises, easily done. Ferguson makes her point, and drives it home. The letters resonate, and raise the alarm with Franky. She isn’t here to play around.

“Those were meant to be posted.”

“Letters to an ex-Governor? I don’t think Channing would approve.” She says it all in the Cheshire smile; she’s read them, she’s aware, and it doesn’t surprise her to know how _concurrent_ Erica’s little _tryst_ fell in perfectly with an illegal affair. Doyle is dismissed with an air of dismay following her every step. The first piece has been claimed; a long game awaits.

* * *

“Erica Davidson was clearly out of her depth.”

Joan denounces the former governor with a poignant statement to Officer Bennett. She has come here as her moniker describes – _The Fixer_. Little does one know she has garnered an intimate understanding of her predecessor here; knowing full well that a woman so willing to submit could hardly have had the mettle to rise to the top and maintain control of a prison. It made the transition easy; a firm hand, and an iron fist has already established a new regime, a new order within Wentworth’s halls.

“ _She did her best_ ,” comes the response from the meek officer, passed over for promotion too many times to count. Joan merely grants a look that says she knows more than she lets on, and changes the subject. Her best was not enough.

* * *

Kitten heels click down the hallway of the administration, seeking to quickly tie up a few loose ends. A few familiar heads look up; they nod, and return to the work. She’s irrelevant to them now, but her appearance will spark the ruthless gossip that will make its way round the prison in due time. Much akin to feeding a pool of sharks, the prisoners will tear her apart.

It’s a good thing she isn’t staying. An even better thing she hasn’t been seen by an inmate, yet.

Thin knuckles rap against the door. The signage has changed. A new name is born under the title of Governor.

It resonates, but not for the reason she thinks it should.

“ _Come in_.”

She puts weight on the handle, pushes in. The room is different. Much more… drab than before, painted yet another shade of teal. She sucks in a breath as the Governor looks up from her work, and she meets dark, ever familiar eyes yet again, but with much more _professionalism_ this time around.

Joan Ferguson turns around in her chair, and offers the Devil’s smile in full.

“Miss Davidson, to what do I owe the pleasure?”


End file.
